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<title>There’s That Lightbulb We Keep Dancing Under by maxbegone</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26962276">There’s That Lightbulb We Keep Dancing Under</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxbegone/pseuds/maxbegone'>maxbegone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Husbands, Post-Canon, Slow Dancing, Snow, Tooth-Rotting Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:47:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>809</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26962276</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxbegone/pseuds/maxbegone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He turns back to David, whose wonder has now morphed into curiosity, a hand extended.</p><p>“Dance with me?” Patrick’s palm is upturned for David to take, and when he does, he pulls his husband to his feet.</p><p>—</p><p>Title from Heart of It by Michael Bernard Fitzgerald.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>126</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>There’s That Lightbulb We Keep Dancing Under</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When the dishwasher is loaded and the pots and pans are air drying on a towel, Patrick switches off the kitchen lights and pads into the living room. He finds David on the sofa practically swallowed up by a thick blanket as he peers out at the winter night. Only the corner lamp is on, flooding the room with soft amber light.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">David smiles at Patrick, a soft thing that melts his heart and makes him want to wrap himself up in his embrace. The only thing really stopping him his the mug of tea his husband is cradling in both hands. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">David points out the window. “Snow,” he says quietly, as if it’s a secret.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Patrick follows his gaze. Outside there’s a steady fall of white and if it keeps at this pace, there will be an even sheet by sunrise. He presses a kiss to David’s hair, humming, and sits down with him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“First snow of the season. You’ll have to help me shovel in the morning,” Patrick says, and David gives him a half-hearted roll of his eyes. “Maybe I should have salted the driveway,” he muses then, mostly to himself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sure it’s not too late to do that in the morning,” David replies, blowing at his tea. “Right?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Patrick shrugs, “Maybe,” and turns to look outside again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He can feel the chill in his bones already, the thought of spending several hours shoveling snow off the driveway already exhausting him. But coming home from the store tonight, Patrick could smell the snow. That crisp, almost sweetness that carried in the air with his frozen breath. It’s a thrilling magic that is only rivaled by Christmas morning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">David’s sitting across from him with childlike wonder in his eyes, and once again Patrick wants to hold that feeling close to him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He inhales and nudges David’s foot with his own. “Hey.” Patrick eases the mug from David’s hands and sets it on the coffee table.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stands then, moving over to where his old record player sits beside the hand-me-down piano that came with the house (a beautiful rich wood, polished and perfectly in-tune). Patrick flicks it on and the turntable begins spinning as a soft melody echoes out through its speakers. He turns back to David, whose wonder has now morphed into curiosity, a hand extended.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dance with me?” Patrick’s palm is upturned for David to take, and when he does, he pulls his husband to his feet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The blanket pools into a heap on the couch as David steps away from his cocoon. He wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck immediately, and Patrick’s hands find their usual spot balanced on David’s waist. It’s a slow sway in the middle of their living room, coordinated for them alone and no one else, unlike their wedding where everyone was watching and David’s face was flush with emotion. Patrick doesn’t threaten to dip him with a teasing wink this time either, but David does press his face into his neck at one point.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It isn’t like his birthday either when a day filled with heavy emotions turned out to be okay. Because of David. Always because of David.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No one is there but the two of them as they move in a slow circle in their home, sock-footed and comfortable as the first snowfall of the season takes place just beyond their window.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Patrick counts himself lucky and grateful, and he always will. Because Patrick Brewer as a kid would have never dreamt of a life like this. Not even Patrick Brewer just a few years ago, getting back together for what would be with last time with Rachel.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But Patrick Brewer of yesterday, today, tomorrow, and onward will always dream of this. He’s always going to dream of holding his husband in his arms as they dance lazily, drifting from song to song. He’s always going to want David at the end of the day. Even when they have their faults and their worst sides show — sometimes greedy, sometimes selfish — Patrick will always want David.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey...where’d you go?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He blinks, realizing now that he’s been staring off and smiling, and that the song has changed into something of a slightly quicker tempo.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Patrick just shakes his head. “I’m right here,” he whispers, David running a hand through the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck. “I’m just thinking about you. About dancing with you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re thinking about what we’re doing right now?” David lets one eyebrow arc upward, his tone teasing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m thinking about everything I want to do with you, David. Everything.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Patrick actually hears David’s thick swallow, watching as he blinks quickly. “Oh,” he hears David whisper. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That’s enough of an invitation for him. Patrick kisses David softly as they keep swaying, as the snow keeps falling. Cozy and blissfully happy. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! You can find me <a href="maxbegone.tumblr.com">@maxbegone</a> on tumblr.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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